Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**Salt In The Wound**

**Aurora’s POV**

Long after Matteo has left, I find myself trapped in the confines of my room, a silent witness to the lingering echoes of his words. The atmosphere feels heavy, as if the very walls are suffocating me, saturated with the remnants of our confrontation. His voice, sharp and unyielding, hangs in the air like a noxious cloud I cannot escape.

What Matteo said, it wasn’t just the words themselves that pierced me; it was the underlying truth I couldn’t deny.

“You’re a disaster waiting to happen.”

“You’re small because you’re weak. Stop pretending it’s something deeper.”

I had braced myself for the harshness, but the delivery was brutal—cold, clinical, as if I were merely a complex problem he was attempting to dissect. Each syllable felt like a hammer striking against the fragile structure of my self-worth, causing it to crumble a little more.

With a heavy heart, I shift my position, my legs feeling like lead beneath me, and make my way into the adjoining bathroom. The fluorescent light blares down, too harsh for my fragile state, so I flick it off. A soothing cascade of moonlight pours through the window, casting gentle shadows that dance across the tiles.

I grasp the edges of the sink, leaning forward to confront my reflection. The sight is a jarring reminder of my despair. My skin appears gaunt, the contours of my face sunken, and my eyes—oh, my eyes—are a haunting echo of exhaustion. I look like a ghost, a specter of someone who once held life in vibrant colors but now merely drifts through the monochrome of existence.

Desperation drives me to rummage through the clutter of my bathroom, searching for what I know I need.

What I crave.

My fingers brush against something at the back of a drawer.

Smooth.

Cold.

Sharp.

I grasp the razor, its metallic sheen glinting ominously in the dim light as I bring it closer to my arm. My skin seems to glow a sickly pale under the moonlight, and my eyes—those hollow orbs—stare back at me, devoid of any glimmer of hope.

“Pathetic,” I murmur to myself, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.

Tears begin to fall, silent and heavy, tracing paths down my cheeks like gentle raindrops on a desolate day.

I can’t even discern what hurts more—the venomous words they hurl at me or the ease with which I accept their cruel reality.

I long to scream, to shatter something, to release the tempest of pain swirling within me.

But instead, I remain there, frozen in place.

Shaking. Silent. Sinking deeper into the abyss.

The cold, bloodied tiles press against my legs, a stark reminder that I am still here, that I still exist in this painful reality. I am forced to confront the weight of everything I feel—the hate, the hurt, the pain, the sadness.

Eventually, with great effort, I pull myself up. I splash water onto my cuts, wincing as the stinging liquid mingles with the blood. I wipe my hands with trembling fingers, trying to cleanse away the evidence of my turmoil.

I’m fine, I tell myself, though the words feel hollow.